The Labyrinth Unwritten
by haruharu
Summary: A battle against Hell, a journey unwanted, a king fallen. What adventure unleashed when a child is cast out into a world unknown and tied to the plot of a wicked man's destiny. Dark 3-part saga. You have been warned.
1. Ch 1: The King Of Tyre

Okay well I've decided to rewrite chapter one, as well as change my narration. However I'm currently typing this with a deep-set scowl on my face because I had originally finished the rewrite to chapter one, however before I had saved it (because I was too stupid to do that before) my computer crashed and I lost EVERYTHING I wrote. Now doesn't that just beat all? So save your work guys! 'Cause most likely your computer's gonna give you the middle finger when you least expect it.

This is a prequel saga; it will dive into it's own story while ultimately connecting to the labyrinth cannon. After completing the prequel I'll move on to a Labyrinth retelling and finishing off with the ultimate sequel that many of you write; all interconnecting. So it's going to be a three-part saga. Reviews inspire writing so get to it.

Pairing: Jareth/Sarah

Rating: M

Description: A battle against Hell, a journey unwanted, a king fallen. What adventure unleashed when a child is cast out in a world unknown and tied to the plot of a wicked man's destiny. The story of the labyrinth gets it's unsettling prequel in this _Dante's Inferno_ of good vs. evil.

Disclaimer: I own nothing, but claim everything else.

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The Labyrinth Unwritten

by: haruharu

Chapter 1:

The King of Tyre

_"You are of your father the devil, and the desires of your father you want to do. He was a murderer from the beginning, and does not stand in the truth, because there is no truth in him. When he speaks a lie, he speaks from his own resources, for he is a liar and the father of it." [John 8:44]  
_

The weight of death besieged him. The stench of decay hung low in the air, while the miasma of agony, despondency, and wretchedness pealed the skin and coiled the bones. The toxic atmosphere, so acidic that every breathe seared flesh and eroded soul.

There was no better indication that he had crossed the point of Limbo and entered the Oblivion Exile; where the lost became the damned and the suffering begat the desolate.

He walked forward, frown firm as he stepped over the disembodied limbs that legioned together expelling from the black frozen earth. The Exile was a state of sorrow inhabited by the souls of sinners expiating their woes to none that would hear. A place for those abandoned by gods and demons; a place for the unwanted––the lost.

The sharp screams and withering bodies engulfed the endless cavern; their helpless pleas for salvation went on deaf ears, just as it always had––just as it always will, and he was no stickler to change that. Especially since the suffering of such a repugnant throng of wretch raised his rhapsody and curled his lips.

Tramping through the slog of bodies, a skeletal hand reached out and grabbed hold of his booted calf––it's spidery fingers wrenching the limb back into the thrall. Frown still in place and eyes set in a forefront of determination, he hadn't so much as raised and eyebrow before a jounce of electricity pulsated down his being and seared the palm with an inferno that surpassed the hell-fire that these wretched nut-baggers wreathed in. He wasn't surprised when a harrowing scream directly answered, nor was he when the release of pressure accompanied thereafter.

Just the same, he returned the favor by crushing his spiked heel into the deformed flesh as he walked over them.

These paltry poultry could touch none such as him. Their wailing gurgles were babble to his ears, while their scourged setting was laughable in his eyes. The contempt he held for the half-baked morons that found themselves laid waste within the Exiles' frosty slammer was on the level of a spider pitying the fly; and in the same way he drove their torture further until the black ice that held them was bled red with agony.

He ignored the resulting bawls; instead walking past several staggering black thorns that extruded from the frozen loam. Their nail-like spikes were skewered with the bodies of infant babies, hanging limp in rotting mass. Before he could brace himself forward however, he found himself stopping beside the disgusting sight, and taking a shallow breath to his restrained mirth.

It was a depressing sight. Unprecedented sorrow at any angle, and yet a haughty smile reached his eyes as he sought the piles of digested flesh that riddled the earth around the thorns trunks. While claiming an A'dult's soul was pleasing enough––a child's soul; well that was on another plane of rapture.

He could relate––oh how he could relate. All the pizza and all the peppermint snaps in the world couldn't compare. The bare thought of cutting out a lifeblood before it got the chance to carouse was enough to shorten his breath and darken his eyes. He understood the insatiable hunger of spilt life and identified with the creatures that picked over the staked bodies. Ultimately the ending was the same; it always came full circle here. The legacy of these babes' had choked the moment they were brought into life; and he always felt a sense of pride when another newborn was thrown to the embers because it's parents were too daft to baptize the little twit.

'_More fuel for the fire,' _he chuckled.

Sparing one last dismissing glance toward the thorned grave, he walked onward and approached _the hole._

The mist parted as he climbed the deformed glacier outcroppings that made up an abstract staircase; the blackened ice––shaped like the horns, teeth, and claws of the hell-spawn creatures below. Upon arriving to the hallow plymouth he stepped up to the risen plate and reached out a gloved hand to brace against the surface where the withering bodies parted and the ice cracked.

It was a door. Iron, rusted and simple in it's construction. There was no handle nor words etched into it's rusted face, but he knew it all the like. To some less intelligent, it might appear as an escape to an otherwise insufferable existence; but he knew it as it was––dark, menacing, surrounded by the heat of a billion souls burning. It might have not looked much to the eye, but damn, could it make grown men cry.

His being had absorbed the rush of horror; the mist surrounding him twisting into black smog from the evil current. It's black tendrils ghosted along his being tickling with dark promise before resonating with his magick. The heat in his palm suddenly ceased from a searing burn to a welcome pulse. The heart of the pit––the heart of Acheron welcoming him.

'_How ironic,'_ he thought. _'That no other gate in this plane or any other could be more worthy of my power than that which opened the mouth of Hell.' _

With eyes ablaze, he gripped the door with his remaining hand, crushing it's rusted surface with the claws behind its leather. He felt the door force against him and braced his will harder, speaking the words that fell from his lips in ritualistic automation.

"Yr dra onyj 'ymjanrakk yv kdaam orj kdyra Y noyka 'k zi ryyra drod iy' zoi raon. Dy dra aokd orj dy dra 'akd Y cargyr. Dy dra ryndr orj dy dra ky'dr Y kry' o kykr knyrmoyzyrk: Jaodr dy dra 'aogmyrk, 'aomdr dy dra kdnyrk!"

[_"In the arid wilderness of steel and stone I raise up my voice that you may hear. To the east and to the west I beckon. To the north and to the south I show a sign proclaiming: Death to the weakling, wealth to the strong!"_]

He held out the final notes, passing his essence through the gates miasma, yet grounding his teeth as he tried to hold back from being swayed into the pits seducing embrace. No sooner had he felt the loose slag of the rite completing did another force block his entry––Death.

**_"All are destined to face the ominous specter of Death. When the time arrives the harvester of souls severs the tie that binds body and spirit, and ushers the newly departed into the next realm."_**

Purgatory broke around him. Shattering into fragments of black glacier, deformed bodies, and hallow screams as he was forced into Deaths domain––_it's_ plane of existence.

Like the eye of a hurricane, all life stopped at once. The sounds of suffering victims disappeared as did any sign of the purgatory he had just crossed. He was in the void now.

Several fragments of what once was scattered around him, frozen in time; dead to the world. The loam beneath his feet looked blurry as if it was neither here nor there, like a fading memory replaying on film. His vision he knew was perfect, yet it swam and blurred within this void reinforcing that even the most strongest of essence was near death when met with this plane.

Then there was _it. _Black as the night it cloaked itself with, and damned as the souls it reaped––Death was a creature to pity. With a body ripped of flesh, showing nothing but the deformed bones of a skeleton; he had no lower half, the cloak he wore, open to his ribcage and shredded as it was could not hide the gruesome shape he bared; his hipbones––tied off with chained leather strips that ran down his figure and concealed his horrid deformities. Two large and twisted horns ran back from his skull and ripped through the cloaks hood that covered his face, while a silver chained pendant hung from where his neck would be, if he had had one. The pendant, large and hung from a chain that looked like it once held an iron ball, was intercate and hellishly beautiful in it's design. The demonic carvings of many withering bodies combining to make the _Baphomet_ symbol, was something he understood all too well. He knew what weight the pendant held, and he pitied Death more for it.

**"Who goes."** It's voice was a legion of many dying woes.

**"Who goes,"** It asked again. The sickle, which he had kept his steady glare on, moved from it's right claw and was gripped together with the left. It was a picture of fear bled into evil, and even he, who stepped into the lower plane with not so much as a bat of the eye felt the creep of fear move up his spine. It was a helpless feeling, the kind that opened up while knights lay dead on the battle field.

He kept silent as he watched the sickle that called his death. It was like a spell, he knew. The sickle's spine handle curving in a deforming shape down it's frame, much like the spines stolen from human bones. It's sinister blade was long and menacing. Neither dull from the bodies reaped from it, nor was it riddled with the blood of those souls. No, Death's sickle was clean and polished like silver glinting in the sun, it was beautiful beyond any weapon he had ever seen. The blade looked like the fang of some horrid beast, yet shaped with all the gothic finesse of the best artisans. The blade came to meet the spine with a symbol of the forsaken skull that it was, and crested with shapes of claws and bodies ending with yet another smaller sinister spiked blade extruding from the back.

_'What a piece of work,'_ he marveled as he exchanged his glance from sickle to monster. Death was indeed a creature to be pitied. He knew of his tale; that once the feared Death was not the horrid reaper of souls. That once it was a man of the Templar Knights, slaying lives for his king and bishop. That when a crusade ended with a knife in his back, and blood spilled from his gut; he lay screaming pleas to avoid the same fate he cast on others. That _he_ had answered him; given him the chance to cheat death for the service of an eternity. He had agreed, and become that which never dies but wields death on others. A mere hallow shell of what he was, and now the creature that pulls each and every dying soul to the bowls of credision––where his sickle was melded, as was his soul.

He wondered if Death regretted, if the fate it chose was ultimately better than the eternal damnation it wielded; for _he_ makes no promises and all _his _gifts end in misery.

"Kdymm iy'n cmoja, jong krakranj. Y oz yv gyr, orj mykdar rmykan ok Y okg yv draa kokkoka yrdy dra cmyrj 'ynmj."

[_"Still your blade, dark shepherd. I am of kin, and harken closer as I ask of thee passage into the blind world."_]

Death considered the spoken language of the Infernal; a language only known by those forged in the fires of Acheron with the iniquitous and the vile. His hallow eyeless sockets had narrowed at the intruder; an impossible feet it sounded, but the grey twisted light that filled the black gaps held a fear so striking it glared into the soul of it's victim.

The penitent stare of the arbiter, he knew. His soul was being judged.

**"I know you." **It was a statement, not a question.

**"I know you,"** he repeated. **"Jareth, King of the lower world."**

_'King?'_

"You're mistaken, harvester. I am no king, my sovereignty is the fell of separate thrones." Jareth almost laughed at his own words. How accurate and yet false they were, but he was sure that Death had seen past that.

Death seemed to frown at his answer if it was possible, but the ever-growing black miasma around them reminded Jareth otherwise.

**"You choose to renounce your throne?"** It's question was like a demand.

"I _choose _to live for mine-self, not the daft whims of my tyrant sovereign." He had practically ground out the words; his unearthed rage barely held back. "However, I still have dominion over such as you, so I _demand _that the thee step asunder and open the passage through."

Death said nothing––answered nothing. The dead sound of the void was all that replied to the echo of Jareth's declaim. Then when the soundless darkness seemed to eat away at his resolve, Death answered.

**"I know you Jareth, I have judged your soul."** A cruel bony finger pointed straight to the heart of his charge. **"for the blood you spill eternal damnation is your fate."**

Jareth laughed; a disturbed mocking sound. "Slit your tongue," he spat right back. "You're penitent stare affects me naught," his voice was inhuman. "I have no soul to burn."

Death seethed it's power around itself. The sinister form of it's sickle pulled downward until the blade was parallel to the juggler of Jareth's throat. Ignoring his words, it continued on.

**"The war that you wage against your own will end where it started,"** His voice was a calm knowing rumble. **"You're future is here king of kings, whether it be on a seat of power or in a pool of suffering."**

Jareth was about to respond when Death cut him off with a slash of it's sickle.

**"You have no place here."**

Stepping backward, the intruder's eyes widened in anger. "What," he echoed, but before he could interrogate the insult, Death made another lethal slice for his neck.

**"You are mine, fæge!"  
**

**_"For those who stand before the fair gaze of Death, there is no better podium of judicial equality. All fidelity bares witness to the same sins, and no soul is judged differently than thy neighbor. In life there is unrest, and in death––equality."_**

The air surrounding them changed and swirled into something hostile as the Great Mediator held up his sickle with cruel intent.

Jareth felt the subtle change in magickal aura and reacted as much. Summoning his own power from the furnace of his heart, he drew it up through his being and into his palm––calling forth a weapon of his own forage.

With burning intensity, a flare of crimson-enveloped-black power cut through the cave of his hand and opened the vortex which held his blade. The gothic handle of the sword issued first, it's intricacy gilded figure expiring with slow agonizing pace. Each fraction of a second was a lifetime of torture to Jareth, for summoning fragments of his own flesh-–transformed, was like ripping the skin from bone with bare hands.

When complete handle could be seen, Jareth made a grab for it with his remaining palm and forced the rest of the sinister blade to slice through his flesh. The blade was duel-sided and shaped like the double-mouth of a two-headed creature at it's thickest and down to a beautifully shaped serrated edge at it's most sharpest. It gleamed it's crimson gilded surface back at the wielder, while it's rune-inscribed magick glowed it's pulsing power toward it's enemies.

The man barely got the chance to draw his weapon before the downward strike of the reapers blade clashed against his own. Jareth held out in a defensive stand, forcing back the power of the damned sickle, while using the spiked metal heel of his boot, he lashed out a forward kick against the hollow robes of his attacker. It wasn't enough to throw the creature off guard, but he didn't intend it to, however it did allow a foot of distance between them––enough for the man to counter back against the spine of the scythe, in hopes to drop it out of Deaths skeletal grasp.

The great scavenger was quicker to recover, however, and faster to evade against the quaking blow. It's hallow effervescing laughter followed it's faint movements like the sable gas that burned from it's skeleton.

"Stubborn meddler," Jareth roared as he paralleled the wraith-like speed of his foe with every clash. "I will not be made the fool by your blind servitude!" The last words were ground out as he took a chance stab at the creatures' shadowed face. A maneuver that proved incautious.

Their blades met once more–Jareth's own sword a lifeline between the sickle and his throat. He was daft to let his frustration handicap his strength in duel. Now he was in check, a move away from obliteration. Jareth seethed at his idiocy; he was no dog to lay at death's heels. However here he was, a beheading away from failure by the grim claws of a creature most pitiful. He'd have none of that.

**"All things perish, all things wither, all things face Death,"** The fallen's words were like smog to the senses–smelling of brimstone and dearth. **"Your's will be a pleasure mine have non felt."**

Jareth laughed out right. "What pleasures have you known, dead solider?" He mocked death, and dared to do more, as a sudden surge of magick burned behind his demon eyes. This dance would end unfortunate.

Ignoring the protocol for a proper casting circle, Jareth tensed his magick until his flesh was charred off the bone. He'd been thankful that Death's domain was a vortex beyond the terra plane; breaking the rules here held no foul.

If Death could be surprised, Jareth was sure the phantom felt it now. The vortex shifted and adapted in reaction to the building power that slowly burnt away his tissue from his frame. Jareth spoke the spellcraft in haste; quick to complete the spell before it's dark brands had the chance to erode his body completely.

"Laeceliel, goelv eo anira cekyam tycilla, wmilky omeli liela fceew illw lailstmeoelaa lia ocalair oem anira tyemanec anirmeyvir aeym weliilel-"

[_"Solomon, king of the lower plane, draw from mine blood and sacrifice my flesh for the portal through your domain-"_]

With recognized intention, Death put distance between them, just as Jareth was quick to react. Without losing face in his incantation, he willed the molecules of matter surrounding his foe, to charge and heat faster–thus erupting with flames, as his clawed fingers slashed toward Death.

The fire ignited the miasma and burned against Death. The creature slashed out his scythe in blind rage–it's deathly claw striking out toward Jareth's heart–only to grasp air.

Then the void exploded.

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Ending here, stay tuned for more exciting adventure with Jareth and Sarah.

Next chapter: _Into The Blind World. _


	2. Ch 2: Into the blind world

**The Labyrinth Unwritten**

Chapter 2

_Into the blind world_

By: HaruHaru

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**Yee listen up 'fool:** For those that didn't know, 'Dearth' is a word. It's a synonym for 'A since of wanting or Absence' so in my duel between the Reaper and Jareth 'Dearth' was properly used and not a misspelling for 'Death'.

Also I'm like totally not sorry for late updates or the poor grammatical presentation of my introductory chapter. Shit happens and then you die, so lets keep it in the present and enjoy the recent chapters instead.

Also Also, I still need beta. There I said it. And honestly faster chapters is the equivalent of time divided by Beta-ing. It's simple math people, you should now that.

This chapter is going to continue the literal decent into Hell, but end up with Sarah somehow. Go figure?

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**This chapter is endorsed by the Birthday of PaisleyRose. (yeah it's late, but what can ya do?)**

**Love your work, and another year means another 365 fanfics waiting for you to write. haha**

**

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"_Into the blind world we now have descended. The shores of Acheron lay ahead where Cheron's vessel ferries the souls of the damned to King Solomon for judgement. Through me, abandon all hope, Through me, the path to everlasting pain, Through me, God does not heave, and prayers are not heard." [Dante cantro 1:2 summarized]_

_[And when the fires subsided the black cloak of Death lay shredded on the plume, and it's ominous blade caught between the frozen earth stood tall and inviting to the victors eyes. But death was not destroyed. Nothing can destroy the specter of Death, for he always was and always is, and will return to his haggard duties yet again. For now however, Jareth could breathe the air of victory as the Great Harvester licked it's wounds down in the flames of perdition.]_

Jareth wasted no time in claiming the infamous scythe as his own. One touch and it's magick melded into his own. Death would have to start anew, blade and all.

The blonde laughed an odious and foul sound as he pictured Death's frustration at his theft. But to the victor goes the spoils, and it was too much of an invitation to turn down.

Tossing his new toy around, Jareth walked on, power rippling and muscles flexed as Hell opened it's great maw and he made the first few steps into oblivion.

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It wasn't as if Sarah Williams had any good reason to skip soccer practice. She liked the sport enough, and bringing home the occasional bleeding shin guard to Karen was just as fun as ripping off the grass-stained tubbed socks and reaping in the smell that followed.

With her soccer cleats strung up around her neck, and her _Nikes _bag swung around her back, she bolted down the back alleys of South Main Street catching backward glances on her unseen pursuers.

It was supposed to be funny, really. Just a joke she spurred on at the bottom of Geometry. The type that came to you while chasing the clock and building a tower of erasers. Who would have thought a bit of harmless paper and some spit could go so wrong.

Now she was running for her pre-mature life down the slums of South Nyack, but Hell was it worth it. Stephanie Blancher never looked so pissed; and just remembering her scowling face as she plucked the sticky wad out of her high pony tail lit the fire of laughter in Sarah's gut. While remembering the hissed words, _"You're dead," _just made her run faster.

Sarah sprinted down the narrow streets. Her converse shoes splattering in puddles and ripping on chain links as she climbed fences to put space between her and Stephanie's gang of goons. She figured she was a few paces ahead of them, but the flickering shadows and thudding steps were a constant reminder she was only 'so far' ahead.

Making a quick choice she ducked into an alleyway and made for the garbage compactor, hiding behind it. She pulled her belongings close and stilled her ears to listen in on her hounders. Her heart clinched as she heard the running thuds of her classmates as they passed the alleyway. Sarah was about to breathe a sigh of relief when she herd an unmistakable high-pitched shrill bellow down the alleyway.

"There she is," Stephanie screeched. "You better run you little brat."

Sarah did a quick 180º and ran for the other end of the alleyway. It just wasn't her day. She was hoping that they'd eventually get tired of chasing her and give up, but apparently Stephanie Blanched was in it for the kill. Come on, it was just a little harmless joke after all.

As the alleyway ebbed away, Sarah forced herself to stop. The alleyway had tapered off into a dead end. Panting hard and clutching her side, she looked behind her to see Stephanie and her gang in hot pursuit.

"Oh what luck," She yelled; giving her foot a good stomp.

On the cusp of self defeat, Sarah searched her surroundings desperately looking for anything to defend herself with. Upon glancing to her right, her eyes widened at what she saw. It was a door, one with a solid oak varnish and old-world knocker. She could have sworn it wasn't there before. Sarah glanced around and gave the door a double take, and yet it still stood tall and welcoming in her moment of distress.

Sarah squirmed with thought between the door and her vengeful classmates. With no other option she ran for the exit, guessing that it had escaped her vision before.

To her surprised delight, the door was open and she pulled hard on the iron knocker hearing the old rust creak as the door slowly gave way. She faintly heard the sounds of Stephanie squawking as the door fell shut behind her entry.

The first few steps beyond the threshold were hard to take. It appeared to be a library, filled to the 'T' with musty old books and collections of strange exotic objects. It was a lot to take in, and Sarah stood stunned by the enchanting immensity of it all. For a moment she forgot about all her problems and dreamily walked through the foyer.

In her stupor Sarah stumbled onto a circular space that was lined with marble tiles and seemed to be the center of everything. Further inspection found a great oak desk furnished in what she guessed was an old gothic victorian style. The desk looked old, unused, and except for a few miscellaneous tomes, held nothing on it's surface. Beyond the odd desk the only other furniture in the hall was a dusty black leather couch and a lamp shaped like an elephant.

Stepping fully into the circular lobby, Sarah called out to anyone who could hear her. Maybe a worker or a few patrons, but no one answered. Gripping her bag closer and feeling strangely claustrophobic in the towering library, Sarah decided to walk back to the door. If she was lucky, Stephanie would have moved on by now, and Sarah wouldn't have to face her until monday.

"Wait a minute," Sarah stopped dead in her tracks. "Wouldn't she have known I was here? Hadn't she seen the door?"

Confused, Sarah started huffing it back the way she came. She didn't think Stephanie was that dumb, and surely not all her classmates could have missed such an obvious exit. However her thoughts were interrupted as she found herself staring back at a wall of books. She must have taken a wrong turn, she reasoned, but walking back only got her to the lobby again. She tried a few more times before she gave in that she might have forgotten the way to the foyer.

Sarah found the lobby a third time, and recognized that she was starting to get worried, if not a little bit frightened. She didn't know her way back, and the only other option was to look for another exit. Sarah thumped her butt down on the couch as she considered her options. She wasn't sure how long she stared at the floor, but the welcoming sound of another voice brought her out of reverie.

"Are you lost?"

Sarah looked up into the concerned brown eyes of a young man not much older than her. He looked about fifteen, sixteen at the most, with short black hair cropped in a way that made his ears look large and obvious.

"I-I, I am," she answered.

"Then let me help you."

He gave her a warm smile that sarah returned shyly. The boy outstretched his hand, helping her up and Sarah noticed that the clothes he wore seemed strange and out of date. A cotton tunic, leather jerkin, and what looked like jeans; but before Sarah could ask him about it a blue-_something_ was forced into her face.

"Here, dry your eyes," he offered, "you look like you've been cryin' a bit." He pushed the bandana into her hands and gave her another ear to ear smile. Mechanically, Sarah obeyed and wiped the tears she hadn't noticed she was shedding.

"Do you work here?"

Trying to hand back the bandana, the boy ignored her and took her free hand in his, leading her toward the desk. "I suppose," he replied, "yes, I do." He ducked behind the desk momentarily, leaving Sarah to stare as he riffled through the drawers and pulled out a large book.

"If you don't mind, can I have your signature, here," the boy indicated as he pointed to a blank line under a page titled, 'Guestbook'.

Sarah stared at it momentarily.

"Why do you need-"

"Just please sign," the dark haired boy interrupted as he anxiously scratched his head. Sarah assumed it was one of the rules here and he'd be under the heat if he didn't follow his job, so she took the pen offered and jotted down her name.

"Sarah Williams," the boy read aloud, "yes, this is brilliant." Closing the tome, the speculative librarian seemed to have physically relaxed some. Sarah wrote it off as nerves, but she was starting to get a bad feeling.

"So could you show me the exit, I got lost and I'm sure it's past my curfew so..."

However Sarah's words were lost when she noticed the the awkward smile painted across the librarian's face. Sarah paused a minute and then realized something.

"What's your name, anyway?"

The strange boy-liberian did a double take before smiling sheepishly and scratching that same spot on his head, nervously. "Merton," he answered softly.

"Well Merton, can you show me to the exit?"

Merton frowned a bit before stepping out from the desk and directing her toward the rows of bookcases. "It's that way," he said as he pointed down the corridor.

"Down there?"

Sarah turned around to clarify but found that she was suddenly, very alone. The lobby was bare and the black haired, big eared boy of before was no where to be found.

"W-What?" Sarah did a quick check of her surroundings before coming to the decision she was truly alone. "What's going on here?"

First she couldn't find the entrance, now she can't find the librarian! It was adding up to be just one of those days, she guessed. Deciding to move on, she started down the bookshelf-like hallway that Merton had pointed out.

The corridor of bookshelves were dimly lit and smelled of musty age. Corridor after corridor, and the bookshelves melded together until Sarah was sure she was lost in a maze of sorts. She didn't know how much time had passed; her sole reassurance was the familiar pitter-patter of rain drops against the vaulted roof.

Out of frustration Sarah plopped down on the first armchair she saw, waiting patiently in-between two adjacent bookshelves. This library was a maze! No other word could describe the ridiculous amount of time it'd taken her to orientate herself through the written jungle. Feeling strangely curious, Sarah reached over to the first book she saw and read the printed binding.

"_The Labyrinth" _

Sarah echoed the title silently, staring at the golden lettering as if this lone book contained all answers. She rolled her eyes.

"This is ridiculous."

Shoving the book back on the shelve she passed a finger to the next tome and pulled it out.

"_The owl's dawn, The unicorn's fall" _

"Pfft, yeah whatever." She passed that one by as well.

She pulled another.

"_Apathy for the Devil?" _An interesting take, she thought. "Yeah well, I don't like sequels."

She put it back, and drew book after book, turning her nose up title after title.

"_Goblins 101"_

"_How to slay a vampire" _

"_Sagittarius and you?" _

"These all suck!" she shouted as she threw the offending hardbacks to the floor. Crossing her arms she was on the edge of just letting the vanishing librarian find her, and not bother with walking around anymore shelves or browsing anymore books.

There was something glittering in her vision. Frowning, Sarah bent down and pulled a few books off the treasure that glittered up to her. It was small leather-bound with golden lettering and tattered leafing.

"_The Labyrinth,"_ she read aloud.

Sarah figured the book must have fallen to the floor during her fit of anger. She opened the pages and smoothed over the rough-textured vellum that inked words were printed on. It was an old book, she guessed. An antique likely, yet inviting nonetheless. Sarah decided to steal it.

Tucking the book under her coat, Sarah made small side long glances to be sure no one saw her treachery. Then she stood up, hefted her _nikes _bag above her head, and walked toward what she hoped was the exit.

20 minutes later and Sarah was staring disbelievingly at a metal push-open door with a neon sign that read: _'Exit.'_

Hallelujah, she couldn't believe she'd made it. Wasting no time, Sarah was out that door faster than you could say_ "Check please!"––_only to end up behind the chinese restaurant on 1st and Main.

"How did I––?" Sarah was sure she should ask how the so-called 'library' used the same exit as_ 'Faun-Ling's discount take out,' _but frankly it was dark, raining, and she didn't care. Sarah ran home like death was on her heels.

Returning to the old white lady, sarah saw something she was hoping to avoid: her stepmother waiting on the porch. Her hands on her hips, and death in her eyes, Sarah could tell Karen was barely containing a rehearsed lecture hours in the making.

"Where have you been?"

"I'm..late from soccer practice," Sarah returned.

"Don't you lie to me young lady, I called your coach an hour ago," Karen snarled from down her finger, "Now where have you been?"

Sarah was about to reply when she was violently grabbed by the arm and pulled inside the house.

"I don't want to hear your excuses missy, it's raining, and you're out late hoofing around in the dark?" Karen was near hysterics as she ripped the soaked jacket from her step daughters shoulders.

"Just look at you. You're wet to the bone, oh you'll catch cold for sure."

Sarah tried to argue with her step mother but to no avail. After being shoved off to the bathroom for a warm bath, Karen called her father down to discuss her punishment. Roger was a man of integrity and with a little begging on Sarah's part, her sentence was ebbed down to a weekend locked in her room. Not that Sarah was any happier about that either, and slammed the door when she was inside.

"It's so unfair!" Sarah exclaimed as she hit the bed pillow head on.

"That woman is out to get me. She's a wicked witch, that one!"

Kicking off her shoes, Sarah rolled over and felt a slight bump in her back pocket. Confused, she reached back and pulled out the offending object to reveal the same red leather-bound book that she had _'borrowed'_ from the library earlier.

"I thought I stuffed this in my jacket?" She mumbled as she flipped through the first few pages. She figured she'd might as well read something, seeing as she had nothing else planned that weekend. With the thundering echo of a coming storm behind her, Sarah began the first chapter.

"Let it be known that tricks and trolls hail festive fun for young ones, but goblins foretell misery and misfortune..."

* * *

_[And the reluctant king continued down the uncertain road of woe. Each circle more miserable than the last. The third circle being a particular thorn in his side: Jareth had fought off Cerberus, the Great Wyrm. Three heads of scabbed pulsing puss-oozing terror groped and snapped at him as he passed. It's human stomach gurgling with the acid that made up the third circle. Jareth clogged through gluttony's intestines, passed the golden citadel, and descended down the boiling blood. Beyond the 9th and final circle of Hell, lay Beelzebub's domain. The Lord of Lies.]_

The _Fiend's Heart_ was at the center of Hell's swirling vortex, and it's castle, _Pandaemonium, _Black Palace of the Beast. The dark hole within which the Hell creature had secluded himself.

Jareth walked into the center gate surrounding _Pandaemonium_. The _Fiend's Heart _got it's name from it's organ-like form that wrapped around the bordering area. It's arteries pumping with the souls of the damned.

Jareth wondered a moment, collecting his thoughts as he walked into the cavern of veins. He had approached the final play on his board, the proverbial 'checkmate' in the making. He need only fell the king.

Jareth growled at himself. What was he here for? His convections had been so clear, still were, and the fire of revenge throbbed below his flesh. However, the formula had changed. What was once a straightforward mass of meticulous moves, had turned into a throng of complex tactics. His only direction withheld by the greatest player.

"Ey, yo!"

Jareth, fresh from his introversion, turned toward the strange sound, perplexed. Standing just beyond his line of sight was a red-_something. _Red-orange fur, scaly claws and feet, and a dragon-like beak. Those same reptilian talons tugging on his waist cloth as it repeated itself.

"Ey, yo."

"Don't touch me!" Jareth sneered as he grabbed the scarlet fabric from the creature.

The dragon imp flinched and held up his claws in surrender. "Ey, man, no harm no foul, wee'sa just wanted to ask ya a question, dig?"

Jareth ignored him and inspected the cloth in his hands. "You little goblin!" He barked out. "You got soot stains on my liberian silk waist cinch!" He grabbed the demon by the beak. "It was olde venetian drow monarchical!"

The demon squeaked in fear, babbling incoherent words beneath the blonde's gloved hands. Jareth rolled his eyes and let the creature go; but not before wiping his gloved hand on the imp's coat. "Go, leave me." He chided.

The little red thing seemed to physically _droop _as furry tail went limp and his ears soon following. "We sorry yo, didn't mean no harm, ya know." It imparted as it groped it's tail in embarrassment. "Just, ya know, wanted to ask a question, siz'all."

"Oh what is it?" The blonde exclaimed as he physically sighed in exasperation.

Jareth feared the creature would have pounced on him in glee from the look on it's beak.

"Oh thank ya, dude. Real time, yeah!" Jerath didn't understand any of that. "So like, by the looksee', you have the bling bling of royalee, 'ite?" Nor he to any of that either.

Sighing, Jareth gestured ignorance. To that the creature tried repeating itself, but the blonde was quick to cut him off. "I am not understanding, and daft for what I can make of that gargle-mesh, but if it's my person you're pitifully referring to, then yes I am devised from a higher power," he spoke sparingly.

"Whoa, then like, who are you?" The creature blurted out. "I mean like, wow man, no one comes down here _willingly_."

Jareth supposed he should be insulted by the demon's blatant ignorance of his person, albeit that was his intention. Still, it was contemptuous to hear the truth. "Get to the point." The blonde was more than ready to end this game of intelligence tennis.

That seemed to jog the imp's memory some. "Oh yeah, right." He scratched his ears. "Um like, we was'za wondering if you cou' take us kidz back up with yee."

Jareth wanted to cut out the offending tongue for uttering those words. To dare think that he would ferry a repulsive little scab like it across the planes. Instead he turned and walked away. He was more than aghast at the amount of time he had wasted on the little monster.

"Wait, wait!" Jareth felt the familiar tug at his waist cloth. "You have the power, right?" The creature wouldn't relent, and this crimson waist cinch _was _one of his favorites. Jareth turned and faced the demon with a pointed scowl.

"Come on man, nothin' fancy." It implored. "Me and my buds just want a chance to jam up above, you dig?"

"You're_ buds_?"

"Heh, yeah man, totally!" The little demon called out around them. "Come on guys, it's 'ite to come out now!"

To his prickling annoyance, Jareth was suddenly surrounded by several slang-talking demonic bottom-feeders. Each motley dialect more jagged than the last.

"Ey, yo!"

"Woah, look'at thiss guy!"

"Look'at that hair!"

"What's he hidin' under'neeth 'tat hood?"

"Yo, he smells!"

Jareth felt his mastered patience grate thin under the borage of fuzzy felons.

"Enough!" He exclaimed.

The surrounding noise immediately ceased, and the dragon-like imp from before redirected him.

"So you see, we're a group. You know, a gang. In fact, wee'za call ourselves the _Fire Gang_."

"The fire gang?" Jareth repeated. "Is that because you're damned to scowl the lowest level of hell, like rodents?"

"Ey yo! Not cool dude!" One cut in.

"Totally not cool!" Another added.

"Who doez theez bloke think he 'iz?" Another finished.

"Ey guys, Ey guys. Let's not piss 'em off, dig?" The dragon imp calmed.

Jareth was reaching his limit with these goons. "What do you Hell hounds want from me?" He all but growled out. "To pass to the _Underground_, or worse––the mortal plane? Then what, terrorize the living?"

"Ey yo, no way man." The dragon cut in. "We sing yo. We're how'dyo say like...a band. Yeah man, a band." He smirked a toothy smile. Jareth frowned deeper.

"You want to sing then." He clarified. "In the _Underground_."

"Yeah man, it's just so...miserable here, dig?"

"I would never believe..." Jareth mockingly retorted.

"Yeah man, we'd do anything for you, man. _Anything_."

Jareth quickly ran the pros and cons of the formula under the creatures' hopeful eyes. For as annoyed and frustrated these demons turned his mood, Jareth was a meticulously profound beast. Every slight detail, every possible play, had to be measured and weighed against the game board. He could use the talents of a few minor demons, he consoled. Their obvious simplicity could betray them, but the blonde would never trust such palpable infidels with anything of substance. Defecting on the chance, Jareth gave his agreement to the furry creatures. Their resulting revels again slicing his self-control.

"Yo man, this guy rockz!"

"And he totally doesn' smell!"

Jareth rolled his eyes. "Enough with the lot of you. Be ready when I've made my peace with this hole."

The blonde pushed passed a couple of whooping goblins as they lifted their heads to and throw in victory. "Disgusting." Jareth mumbled as he pulled his hood tighter and left the dancing fire-eaters to their own devices.

Jareth approached the black palace, scowl set firmly on his face. The towering black spirals of coal and iron were as hallow as the illusion that withheld it. The souls found here were the most wicked and carnal, bound as the bodies that integrated the nefarious structure.

Jareth walked through the open gate, as the door to eternity was _always_ open to him, only to stop short as the illusion spirited away like smoke to the wind. Reforming the womb of the Dragon's lair. The King of Tyre burrowed himself away in the wet and secure fetus of degradation and depravity. It was here that evil was born into the hearts and minds of the sentient––locked away to fester and grow.

It was here, at the center of the womb, with it's throbbing veins and pulsing arteries that the Adversary lay.

"_**Be sober, be vigilant; because your adversary the devil walks about like a roaring lion, seeking whom he may devour." [1 Peter 5:8]**_

There, sat upon a throne of thorns was Jareth's dues ex machina. His reasoning, and his purpose. Black and razor were the coils it perched upon, flanked on either side by the fornicating bodies of nude women. They stabbed their palms when they groped the spikes, and cut their tongues forked as they licked the barbs. A distraction otherwise, if not for the commanding presence between.

The form always changed, but Jareth knew _he _as he was, nonetheless. Feet cast in iron boots, blacked from soot, blood, or other means, Jareth knew not. Armored plates devoured his calves, thighs, chest, and arms. Bronzed black and cut like diamonds into the sinister intricacies that beheld the _Ends'_ _knowledge_. The hands were cased in iron gauntlets cut, pressed, and matching those of the boots. Those same hands gripped the thorned arms of the throne with crushing vice. Then there was the face. Jareth could never see the face. Never could make out the slightest of features beyond the black vortex it hid behind. The Antichrist, the Apollyon, the Beast, known by every face, every name, but not to Jareth. For the blonde saw a dark festering hole where the head would lie. A hole so deep that the scaled bodies of serpents withered within. A cowl––his only reprieve. It's heavy hood casting a shadow against the raging horror held within.

"Angel of the bottomless pit." Jareth was the first to speak. "For no other name could beheld thy Hell. I have wrought against your burning bodies, against your sin, and your temptation, to speak with thee."

Jareth might of felt like an idiot, but such high forms of etiquette were expected in _his_ presence.

The armored creature was silent for a pregnant moment before it's deep zealous thunder commanded the still.

"_Ok Y gra', iy''ra ryza dy za okoyr. Ok iy' gra' vnyz dra zyzard iy' 'ana 'ny'krd vnyz dra 'yzc."_

_[As I knew, you've come to me again. As you knew from the moment you were wrought from the womb.]_

"Oh, shut up!"

Immediately following Jareth's outburst, the Hell king rose and reality melted away with him. The Womb was replaced with a lavish throne room staked with scathing bodies elegantly lining the walls. The Hell whores transformed into the Hell hounds they were––nipping, panting, slobbering, and dragging their disgusting carcasses across the floor. The throne of thorns however did not change; if any it had become more monstrously sinister.

"Jareth'kin, your attitude is refreshing." The serpent soothed. "Centuries upon centuries, and you never change." A dark humor was laced in his words.

"As you do with every passing moment. It's a riddle that change exceeds your fortress of solitude at all, really."

Jareth pulled down his own cowl, letting his long golden tresses fall loose around his frame. The disarming action was followed by one of his counterparts'. The towering figure of the tormentor dissolved into one of flesh and bone in a blur of smoke. What was once armored black, was now skin of purple tattooed. Small dragon-like wings perturbed from a muscular chest, it's leather stretched taut over the bones, and twitching ever so slightly. Greater wing-like appendages framed it's back. Two rows of dragon wings on each shoulder, while two rows of bird-like wings below. A long split-silk loincloth of red and blue tapered from a trim waist and hugged muscly thighs. The cloth, embroidered with interact designs and sweeping the floor like spilt blood. It's feet were bare except for an anklet of cut ruby adorning the right foot, and the curving claws that scraped the ground. The hood, Jareth noticed, was still in place forgoing any visual intrusion upon the face of evil.

Jareth supposed this chosen form was a far-cry from anything trustworthy, but as close to respect as his host would share. However and yet unlike many of it's faces, Jareth had a hunch that the one before him was closer to what the Angel once was, and not what it's become. A fitting honer indeed.

"I've come here for information, advise if you will." Jareth cut to the point. "But you knew that."

"Ah, when you're not fighting off Death and uprooting Hell."

"The best entertainment in centuries, and you know it. The last being that bloke Dante, was it?"

"Don't speak that name."

"Then get to the point."

The other was silent a moment before returning. "So the kingdom then–"

"Exactly." Jareth interrupted.

The Adversary's cowl seethed. "And Ilddraough?"

"His head against the axe by Beltane."

"Such formidable words, Jareth'kin."

"Don't call me that."

The glint of a smile from under the cowl, and Satanis changed tactics.

"He's here you know, down deeper, at the core of the eighth circle. Waiting for you, Jareth'kin, always serving you, only you."

"Enough!" The blonde physically flinched before finding his words once more. "Satanael, you will submit unto me and forge from thy flesh the knowledge I demand!" Jareth's words were bolstering with electric energy, commanding the air around him. The Accused broke the weaving spells and pushed back against the blonde's own magick until Jareth was forced to his knees.

"You would _dare _to elect magicks within mine domain?" The Dragon roared. "What insolence, what manners indeed!"

A sinister claw reached out to grab the blonde by his chin and lift him to eye level with the creatures dark cowl. Dagger-claws broke skin at the motion and smeared blood around the beauty of those rebellious eyes.

"You do not have the power to command thee," The Adversary seethed. "Not yet."

Jareth fell to the ground coughing when the claw released him. The weight of Evil rocked his body as the blonde regained his composure and stood.

"I can not reveal the coming tides, you know that." The Devil continued. "From the moment I fell from the shining palace, I was bound by it's Divine knowledge to keep it's secrets."

"Don't patronize me, serpent!" Jareth shot back. "Fool me not with your coils of lies and candied words. Summon them. Summon those that can bend the rules and give sight to the blind." His counterpart seemed to soften almost, the smog of fear that snarled around his frame had seemingly diminished to a knowing purr. When the Devil spoke again, it's words were faint and delicate.

"Jareth'kin, know that this ambition is futile. The power you crave will not separate you from our destiny, you must know that. Our alliance dwells solely on your willingness to uphold your bargain, and when the moment comes you _will _for fill it."

"Is that concern in your hallow depths, serpent?" Jareth chided, smile never waining. "The Great Adversary, capable of such emotion?" He laughed.

The demon ignored the provoke and continued. "I will call on the Gorgon sisters. They will answer your inquires, but know that no prediction is accurate, and no future for certain.

"What you do during the course of your time amongst _His _children is of no concern to me. As his sheep would say, The cards are on the table, and I hold the winning play."

The serpent hissed in laughter. Jareth stared on in anger.

"Enough with this, Demon. Summon the Gorgons so I may be done with this dreadful night."

"Tired of me already, are we?"

"I am weary of Hell, Demon. As any creature would be."

Satanael laughed and turned to invoke a spell only the originator of sin could contrive. Space opened up and out of the vortex came the giant maw of a creature most foal. It's gnarled teeth hooked back and cut against it's rows of gummy flesh, spraying blood and acid all over the place.

Jareth frowned. This was another thing he was quickly tiring of.

Out of the creatures mouth, which was more like a black hole within a black hole, came the disembodied figures of three humanoid creatures. They were just as the Greeks had depicted. Jareth often wondered how primitive societies always had a very accurate image of the darkness they feared.

The sisters were hardly that. What little form of woman they retained was quickly wiped away by the shear horror of their appearance. Misshapen shapes, twisted and deranged by the fires of Hell that birthed them, the Gorgans were neither snake nor man, but an estranged mix of the two. Not quite one but not quite the other. With faces of deformed lumpy legions, skin like dragon hide, and the rancid trail of mire following with every step. The Gorgans were each a unique vision of hideous, and yet Satan greeted them as if they were the most beautiful of maidens.

Jareth stood frozen in masked appall.

The vortex closed as the Gorgons carefully slithered out of the creatures maw and into the arms of their _Father. _Jareth almost gagged as the creatures puffed and preened over their lord, slobbering kisses with tentacle tongues, and leaving hickeys with suckers. Satanael held them like he would have held a woman, as precious and delicate as lover.

Jareth held his head higher when the demon reproached with his oracles. The Gorgons twisted and seethed around the blonde. Tentacles coiling around his limbs and hollow nostrils snuffing at his neithers. Jareth barley retained his disgust. Just when the creatures had seemed to accept the new lifeform and hunkered down to speak, Satanael whispered something in one's ear. The horrid little thing growled in joy and sputtered slime over the itself to tell the others. Jareth looked toward the demon one eyebrow raised and frown deepened. The cowl that hid the creatures face seemed to gleam with the shadow of a grin before the creature backed off and disappeared in a ring of ash.

Jareth called out after him but was quickly reminded of his reluctant company and looked down to see a tentacle slide up to rub against his manhood. Jareth kicked the creature away in anger.

"I should rip the flesh from your atrocious bodies and be done with it!"

"But then you wouldn' hav' known what you com' for."

"And your journey would hath been in vein.."

"You could bare a few harmless strokes for all the future tells, yes?"

There voices! Jareth wanted to rip off their heads and do Hell a justice right then. What evil could have breathed life into such lonesome filth, Jareth wondered. Only Satan could tolerate such screeching prattle. It was no wonder the demon had left him to the devices of these witches.

"Jareth, is it?" One asked.

"Or is it King Jareth'kin of the Second Rite?" Screeched another.

"Perhaps Ilddraough be better suited..." Mumbled the third.

"Enough!" Jareth yelled. "Tell me what I want or I will rip the flesh from your bones, so help me!"

The sisters made a collective node to each other before the shortest and most grotesque pulled out a butterfly knife from the folds of it's scaly fat.

"Hold out your palm." She asked.

Jareth was about to refuse when he realized why he was here in the first place. His goal was at hand, and no amount of torture was too little compared. He held out his arm for the Gorgons to take. The same tentacle that had swept up his loins, brushed against his wrist and coiled around in a vice grip. A flash and Jareth was gripping his wrist with his other hand, a pool of blood oozing from the recent knife wound. The crimson liquid dripped and splashed around the floor in blackened-red clumps against the terrane.

"Hmmm"

"Yes jus' as we knew..."

"Such predictable behavior, this Jareth'kin..."

"What do you see?" Jareth demanded.

The creatures shushed him in slobbering hissing noises. One dipped a gelatin claw into the pool and brought it to her tongue. She hummed her knowing thoughts, while the others repeated the action. Jareth watched in silence as this went on for several minutes. Once the blood was completely devoured the Gorgons seemed at peace with whatever findings they had discovered. The short grotesque one approached him again.

"Jareth'kin we have debated over your future." She hissed. "And we agree that no future is accrete, especially yours."

"You want to know about your conquest over the fae kingdom..."

"The fell of the Unicorn..."

"The rise of the _Nerosuferoth..._"

Jareth's silent glare was all the affirmation they needed. Turning to face each other, the creatures spun words of Magick with blood and fire. The result was a hologram of burning Magick––a window into the future.

The images were blurred as if eaten alive by the flickering flames, but the Gorgons proceeded to explain regardless.

"On the firth day in the domain of Astaroth, you will meet your demise, Jareth'kin."

"If this root is not plucked before it's bloom, your war will be over before it's begin."

"Have not fear though, If you are down low like the viper, coil around, and strike when right, then Ilddraough's blood be spilt, and your vendetta for filled."

"Tell me about the root!" Jareth demanded. He had just heard exactly what he wanted and no minute crumb on the cusp of his triumph would stand in his way. "Who––What is it!"

The Gorgons cackled and the burning images disappeared. "You will no _it _when the time comes." They spoke in unison. "Remember Jareth'kin, Astaroth on the fifth day. Remember."

"Tell me!" But his cry landed on death ears, for the oracles had disappeared with the smoke. "Damn it!"

Grasping at the whispering smoke, he cried out to Satan, to the Gorgons, and to his _demise._

"Hear me fools! I am Jareth of the _Nesbhorn, _and I will not be felled by Gods great will nor any of his children that would bar my way!"

"Know that child! I will find you and I will rape your lions with the claws of the Behemoth! You and Satan, your destines will end with I!"

* * *

**Authors Note: **Okay guys that's enough for this chapter. 12 pages. Woo! Well I hope that got you guys going, and I'll try to update more often I promise.

Reviews are well received.

The next chapter: _The Maleranche _


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